


Say So

by memory_vacant



Category: IT (1990), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, First Time, Fluff, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Miniseries, Smut, Top Richie Tozier, Virgin Eddie Kaspbrak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:08:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29232795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memory_vacant/pseuds/memory_vacant
Summary: In a perfect world, Eddie would have come to California with a ten-point plan of seduction—one point dedicated to ensuring that Richie still felt the same, another point that hinged on flirting skills that Eddie most certainly wasn’t equipped with, and so on a so forth.  But in case the killer clown and the childhood trauma didn’t make it obvious, this wasn’t a perfect world.So, to put it plainly, Eddie was terribly underprepared.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 11
Kudos: 128





	Say So

Eddie had been thinking about Mr. Keene lately. He thought about all those years ago, when the kind old man sat him down and told him about placebos and camphor water. Mr. Keene wasn’t like all the other adults in Derry; he didn’t lie to, ignore, or— _god forbid_ —manipulate Eddie like Sonya Kaspbrak did. He’d told Eddie the truth. He had tried to help Eddie because that’s what he’d thought Eddie deserved.

But Eddie had ran away. He was scared, so he’d ran away.

Somehow, and as much as it perplexed him, the memory of Mr. Keene made Eddie think about Richie, too. Specifically, Richie outside the Derry sewers, triumphant and finally free of Pennywise’s oppression. His sweaty auburn hair was disheveled, his face tired and marred with something greasy and dark, and his clothes still lingering with the acrid smell of gray water and death. Eddie hadn’t looked much better, but Richie had still held his gaze for a long, long time—his eyes soft and searching for _something_ —before leaning down into Eddie’s space and kissing him.

Eddie’s heart had pounded like the dickens, beating against his ribs so hard that Eddie could almost believe it was trying to tear through his chest just to get closer to Richie. The kiss had lasted a couple of seconds, over far too quickly, but stole Eddie’s breath nonetheless. Richie didn’t seem to mind it when Eddie fumbled for his aspirator, desperately trying to get it to his lips. Richie just gave a patient, lopsided smile. 

“What was that for—why did you do that?” Eddie had asked in a rough voice, still breathing unevenly. 

“Cause I wanted to, Spaghetti Man.” Richie shrugged. “And hey, I figured we both deserved it after surviving Bozo the Killer Clown.” He forced out a breathy laugh, but when Eddie could only stare in response, a hint of hesitation flashed in Richie’s eyes, like he was worried he’d messed things up—that Eddie didn’t want this too. 

But Eddie _did_ want. Eddie loved Richie—he loved him in every way he loved the other Losers, and just a little more. That was something he knew without a doubt; as soon as he’d crossed into Derry’s city limits, he began to feel the most intense sense of love and belonging, a feeling he’d long forgotten. No matter how taken-aback he was by Richie’s sudden display of affection, he couldn’t lose that love again—he needed the Losers in his life. He needed—he _wanted_ —Richie.

With an unsteady arm, Eddie lifted his hand to cup Richie’s cheek. Richie’s hesitant smile brightened mmediately, obscured only a little by his mustache. Eddie looked him over---his tall stature, his deep blue eyes, un-obscured by his old coke-bottle glasses. He had crow’s feet now, and his smile lines had deepened significantly in the time they’d spent apart. Eddie hoped, with all the childlike, innocent hope that still clung to his sewer-stained, age-worn skin, that Richie had gotten to laugh a lot in those 30 years, and he wondered if he could still make Richie smile like he could when they were kids.

But—

Doubt—a familiar thing in Eddie’s life—told him he wouldn’t be able to make this beautifully broken man smile, that he wasn’t good enough for Richie’s love, and that he could never live up to whatever rose-tinted image f him that Richie had—whatever image led Richie to kiss him. Eddie was a middle-aged man that still lived at home with his controlling mother. He was neurotic, closeted, and—for all intents and purposes just…lost.

Richie deserved better. And if Eddie wanted to be with him, if he wanted to _be_ the better that Richie deserved, then he couldn’t jump headfirst into this now, no matter how much he wanted to. He needed time.

So Eddie ran away. Again.

But this time would be _different_ , Eddie told himself. It wouldn’t be forever; it wouldn’t be like how it was with Mr. Keene. This time when he ran, he ran with intent, not fear, all the way back to Great Neck, New York—back to his limo company. Back to his mother. But as he stepped once again into the oppressive shade of their too-large home, he remembered his friends—no, _his family_. He remembered them, and that remembrance gave him the strength to change. 

Eddie sold his limo company for a hefty profit, started going to therapy—finally discussing his trauma, his feelings of self-doubt, working through all the psychological abuse his mother had put him through—and finally, after months of psyching himself up, he told his mother that he’d be moving away. The shawl she’d had wrapped around her shoulders nearly fell to the floor as her hands started shaking, crocodile tears springing to her eyes with practiced ease as she told him that no one could take care of him the way she did, that he couldn’t make it alone. But Eddie wouldn’t be alone, because now he had the Losers. His Lucky Seven.

He marched out their front door, two large bags in tow, as his mother wailed behind him. He kept it together long enough to stow his luggage in the back of the cab and sidle into the back seat, but there was no holding back the smug grin that stretched across his face when the cabbie asked, ‘Where to?’ He’d never felt so strong or so independent in all his life. Ever since he was small, it had been so ingrained in him that he was too weak to ever leave, and he’d really started believing it. Even after putting an end to a cosmic world-eater’s millennium-old murder spree, he hadn’t been sure if he would be strong enough to abandon his comfortable, contained life. 

But now, _now,_ his mother’s home was in the rearview, and the world was ahead. A world where he’d already killed the manifestation of every nightmare he’d ever had… so what was there left to be scared of?

Well. Calling Richie. Eddie was pretty damn scared of calling Richie.

Eddie had stared at Richie’s number a million times. He’d written it down in his date book on his last day in Derry, when they’d all parted ways and promised to keep in touch. But.

Eddie hadn’t spoken to any of them since. Eddie hadn’t called because he’d wanted the time to get better, to work on himself and address the feelings he knew he’d felt all his life. Richie hadn’t called because… well, no one wants to call the person that fled the state after you kissed them.

Eddie didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to _begin_ to explain himself or his behavior. But before he knew it—and before he could change his mind—the phone’s ringing was cut short and an all-too familiar, nasally voice was singing across the line.

“Richard Tozier speaking. If this is the guy that keeps trying to sell me a new car, I gotta tell ya’, pal—”

“Richie? It’s… it’s Eddie.”

The line went nearly silent. Eddie almost would have believed Richie had hung up on him if it weren’t for the lack of dial tone and the distinct sounds of a television in the background. He was about to start word-vomiting an explanation when Richie piped up.

“Spaghetti Man? That you? Hey buddy, I haven’t heard from you in ages, how the hell have you been? I saw Bev and Ben last week, and Mr. and Mrs. Perfect were asking about you.” He was rambling—something he did when he was nervous. He used to do it a lot when Bowers would corner them, back before the Lucky Seven found each other, when it was only the two of them, Bill, and Stan. It was Richie’s number one defense mechanism—like he thought that if he just kept talking, then no one could hurt him. An ever-familiar, ever-unwelcome pang of guilt seeped through Eddie’s body, because if Richie was rambling now, then that must mean that he was putting off Eddie hurting him, like he truly believed that that was what Eddie was calling to do.

“Richie,” Eddie said as quickly as he could, desperately hoping to say something—anything—to quell Richie’s worries. “I’m, uh, I’m going to be in LA soon—for a couple of days—I decided to take some time off work—well, a lot of time off work—but I wanted to… I wanted to come and see you.” Eddie finished definitively. He’d already faced every other fear in his life, no sense in pussyfooting now.

“Oh, well that’s great, Eddie! You better not have booked a hotel, cause you’ve already got a reservation at Casa Tozier.”

Eddie blushed furiously and wondered how the hell he’d be able to converse with Richie face to face; if this was how he reacted with thousands of miles and a phone between them, then how on Earth would he behave when they were in the same room? _And after Richie had_ kissed _him_.

“I don’t want to impose—”

“Nonsense, Spaghetti. It would be my pleasure.”

So a couple of days, a number of changeover flights, and a hell of a lot of anxiety later, Eddie found himself in Los Angeles. The weather, the people, and the entire feel of the place was so starkly different from New York, but Eddie hardly had time to notice. It was especially difficult to focus when his cab was pulling up to Richie’s home. The gray house was all angles with a neatly trimmed lawn, and if it wasn’t for the painted lettering on the mailbox out front reading ‘Tozier’ in gaudy mismatched font, then Eddie would have hardly believed he was in the right place.

Eddie’s legs felt like Jell-O, numb from his hips to his toes, and his palms were sweaty where he was clutching his suitcases. Even his fingers felt weak and ineffectual as he pressed them to the doorbell. A thrill coursed through his body and a lovingly disapproving smile broke across his face when the bell sounded out a simplified rendition of _Spanish Flea_. It broke Eddie’s heart every time he had to remember that the seven of them would never get those 30 years back, that they may never know exactly how much they’d each changed or grown; but as Eddie listened to the doorbell’s final notes he could visualize teenaged Richie curled up on the couch with _The Dating Game_ reflected in his thick glasses, and Eddie’s heart mended ever-so-slightly. learly, they had all changed, but maybe—in the cells of their hearts where they held the faintest memory of one another—they were still the same losers that they’d always been.

Eddie was so lost in his reverie that he didn’t hear the muffled sound of footsteps approaching the door.

“Eddie!” Richie beamed before he even had the door all the way open. Eddie’s heart leapt. Richie was dressed in a colorful, loose button up, sporting an earring in his right ear that Eddie was sure he hadn’t been wearing in Derry, and was looking far more well-rested than the last time they’d been together.

Eddie smiled brightly, completely automatically, and leaned in just a tad, fully expecting Richie to wrap him in a firm hug—the Lucky Seven were nothing if not touchy feely.

But the hug never came. Richie stepped back and motioned for Eddie to come in, his smile and kind eyes never faltering, even when Eddie’s own face fell in private disappointment. Richie led him into a respectably large entryway. It was clean, so clean that Eddie couldn’t believe that the Richie he knew could have done it—the implication that he _had_ cleaned this much for Eddie’s arrival did send a delighted shiver up Eddie’s spine, but…the more realistic conclusion was that Richie had a cleaning crew.

“Alright, Spaghetti-O,” Richie spun on his heel and clapped his hands, rubbing them together excitedly. “Bathroom’s down the hall, kitchen is through that way, feel free to use the pool, just watch out for Godzilla, he’s a real pool hog. You’ve just gotta poke him out of the way and he’ll float off.”

Eddie giggled in earnest, pushing down the familiar urge to hide his smile; he’d been covering up his smiles and laughter since forever, but mostly where Richie was concerned. He could never let the obnoxious lout know he’d gotten off a good one. But just then, whether it be because of the fondness thrumming though his body, or because he knew there were too many hurt feelings between them to make up for, Eddie couldn’t hide his smile if he tried with all his might.

Richie’s returning grin shone with pride; affection for his friend was plastered clear across his face, and yet he still backed up and turned a corner instead of touching Eddie. Not even a clap on the shoulder. It hurt to think that hours before, Eddie really believed that he and Richie would fall right back into step with each other. He’d hoped they could pick up where they’d left off, trying out timid kisses laced with the raw hope of finally living through a childhood of pain.

But here and now, Richie kept a solid distance. He never got as close as they’d been in Derry, when Eddie had been so overwhelmed by fear and dark memories that he’d taken their small touches for granted. Fingers sliding together when exchanging drink glasses, knees and elbows nudging together as they sat on the floor of the Derry Inn, or a comforting pat to a strong shoulder. He wanted all of that again and more. He wanted Richie to _know_ that that’s what he wanted…

If only he knew what _Richie_ wanted—whether he still wanted Eddie.

“I didn’t bring swim trunks.” Eddie said, remorseful even as he giggled.

“No matter, Master Spaghetti, wot wot.” Richie said in a thick, decently impressive English accent—much better than when they were kids—as he adjusted an invisible monocle. “Allow me to show you to your humble abode.”

\--

In a perfect world, Eddie would have come to California with a ten-point plan of seduction—one point dedicated to ensuring that Richie still felt the same, another point that hinged on flirting skills that Eddie most _certainly_ wasn’t equipped with, and so on a so forth. But in case the killer clown and the childhood trauma didn’t make it obvious, this wasn’t a perfect world.

So, to put it plainly, Eddie was terribly underprepared.

Richie had left him to his own devices in the guest room. Eddie ignored the luggage that contained his clothes; he’d packed hastily—before he could lose his nerve—and he wasn’t eager to see how ill-matched his clothes were for the LA weather. Eddie had always favored sweaters, dress shirts, pressed slacks, or even jeans on casual days—and that had never been a problem in _Manhasset Bay_. LA, however, was muggy and bright, a stark contrast to New York. Eddie was used to looming skyscrapers that blocked the sun most of the time—not sizzling sidewalks and an overabundance of sand. Eddie stared hard at his luggage tag and felt the twitch in his eyelid.

The luggage could wait, Eddie thought.

Instead, he took his toiletry bag into the bathroom and began meticulously unpacking it, hoping it would help him take his mind off…things.

He dug past the jumble of orange pill bottles, setting out a couple of them along the sink (ibuprofen for the tension headache he knew was coming, caffeine pills for the time change, anxiety meds for the _everything_ ) and pulled out the rest of his toiletries, making sure that his color-care shampoo was well-hidden behind the shower curtain, because Richie could _never_ see that, or else Eddie would never hear the end of it. At least the thought made him smile.

He caught the end of that smile when he finally glanced himself in the mirror. Eddie looked disheveled; his hair was out of place, and not in the carefully sculpted way he normally kept it. One side of his collar was buried underneath the neck of his sweater, and he’d self-consciously straightened his glasses so many times that day that the edges were smeared with finger prints. He wasn’t smiling anymore; he shifted his gaze as quickly as he could. 

_Breathe deep_ , Eddie told himself. _Breathe deep, hold it in, exhale._

“Here and now.” Eddie breathed, releasing the white-knuckle grip he had on the edge of the sink. He straightened up and combed an unsteady hand through his hair. _Here and now._ He couldn’t let himself worry about the uncertain future if, presently, he was hiding from Richie in an ensuite. He had to rip the band-aid off sometime---otherwise the anxiety, the _not knowing,_ would eat away at him like stomach acid. 

And come to think of it, Eddie had ripped off so many metaphorical bandages between going back to Derry and now. Killing It, escaping a lifetime of being coddled and controlled, actually _travelling across the country_ —all of that was supposed to be the hard part. _This_ should be easy. And yet.

He willed his legs to carry him back towards wherever Richie had gotten off to. As he wandered back through the house, he took in some of its clashing décor: cardboard standees of the Marx Brothers, brightly colored movie posters, and framed ticket stubs, all inexplicably interspersed with high-class art. It was so confoundingly _Richie_ that Eddie got lost in it. Richie had always been like that, comprised of opposing traits that somehow all worked together. Too smart for his own good, but lazy enough that he never wanted to do anything with it; awkward and gangly behind broken glasses, but charming in the smooth way he smiled, the way he made others smile. Eddie used to be so jealous of it; he’d wanted to make the Lucky Seven smile that much—wanted to make Richie smile, especially. Looking back on it now, Eddie realizes that maybe he wasn’t jealous, maybe he was just. Enamored. And with the killer clown and forgetting everyone business, Eddie didn’t think he could be blamed for taking so long to figure that out.

“You get settled in okay?” 

Eddie nearly jumped out of his skin; or at the very least, out of his sweater.

“Whoa there, pal—didn’t mean to spook you.” Richie raised his hands up in front of himself in a show of good will. Eddie didn’t respond, too stunned by the suddenness of Richie’s appearance. It was almost too perfect, as if the universe said, ‘well if you’re going to think about him so much, you may as well have him.’ Eddie didn’t know what the universe was playing at, but he could do this in his own time, thank you very much. 

“Eddie? You still in there?” Richie asked, waving a hand exaggeratedly in front of Eddie’s face.

Before Eddie could get distracted again—this time by staring at the long, knobby fingers that were flashing before his eyes, much longer and wider than Eddie’s own, which was ridiculous because Richie wasn’t _that_ much bigger than him—he worked his mouth open and willed intelligible words to come out.

“Last I checked.” He gave Richie a reassuring grin, only letting it falter when he reached up to make sure his collar was still straight; it was understandable to be unkempt after a long flight, but not so much after several long minutes spent in a fancy guest room with a large ensuite bathroom. Plus. He wanted to look good for Richie. Even if it ended up that Richie didn’t still feel the same, it wouldn’t hurt to—in so many words—show him what he was missing. _Jesus_. If this was the side of him that was brought out by being in such close proximity to Richie Tozier, Eddie wondered if he could even last a day without doing something stupidly telling, something a hopelessly _enamored_ would do…

He still wanted to look good, damnit. If not for Richie—if not for the small part of Richie that may once have found Eddie attractive—then for himself. He’d done so many bold things in so few days, he deserved to preen.

“Well that’s a relief.” Richie laughed, using the hand he’d been waving to ruffle Eddie’s hair. Eddie shouldn’t have been aggravated by this, after all, he knew that it was no-man’s land up there. Throwing caution and your entire life’s foundations to the wind in just a couple of days will have that effect on a perfectly coiffed ‘do. Still he reeled back, swatting playfully at Richie’s arms. He couldn’t have held back his smile if he wanted to, though, because Richie was finally touching him again. 

“I hate it when you do that,” Eddie lied.

“Yeah, yeah.” Richie beamed, giving one last pet to the crown of Eddie’s head. “Was everything okay with your room?”

“Oh, yes it’s fine—it’s great, I mean.” Eddie fumbled, feeling the heat growing on his cheeks. Gosh, he was so bad at this, but… he wasn’t really. He was just bad at talking to _Richie_. It wasn’t like he never had to talk to people, he ran a business for chrissake; he wasn’t some hermit that only had conversations whilst knitting with his mother. He _did_ talk to his mother about knitting, and he did knit…but he also negotiated business deals! He chatted with clients and employees alike; he was 90% sure the barista down the street from the limo garage used to flirt with him _and he flirted back_. He wasn’t inept, by any means. Richie just made him more nervous than all those other people. “Thank you again for letting me stay with you, I hope it’s not too much of a bother—”

“Spaghetti, Spaghetti, Spaghetti,” Richie shook his head and made a big production of resting his hands on his hips—the picture of mock admonishment. “Trust me, you’re doing me a favor.”

“I’m doing _you_ a favor?” Eddie quirked an eyebrow.

“I know I just got to see Missus Marsh and her trophy husband, but,” Richie said, pausing to let Eddie giggle. “I still get lonely out here in the big ol’ city of angels… Turns out it’s not so easy to finally remember the six best friends you ever had in your life only to have them spread out across the world from you. So,” Richie pressed his knuckles into Eddie’s chin, play-socking him. “Don’t apologize.”

“Alright.” Eddie said, knowing full-well he’d probably apologize again before the night was through. He wondered when that had become such an instilled mentality; he was never so repentant as a child. Staying out too long with his ‘trouble-making’ friends or spilling popcorn on Bowers’ head was once something to be wildly proud of—even if those things set his heart racing and he had to puff on his inhaler. Once upon a time his nervousness and fear mixed with giddiness and love and he wouldn’t have apologized to anyone for anything. At some point that changed. Somewhere along the way his existence became something to apologize for—he was always too much or too little and it just became easier to say he was sorry than to argue.

“And try and get out of that spaghetti noodle of yours.” Richie tapped at his own temple and smiled big underneath his mustache. “You don’t have to think so much while you’re here; I sure don’t.”

“I’ll try… Thanks, Rich.”

_For what?_ Eddie thought. _For opening your home to me when I called you out of the blue? For kissing me? For still caring after all this time? For everything?_

_For everything._

“Hey, fuh’getaboutit.” Richie said, wobbling his hand—thumb tip against the rest of his fingers like a claw almost—in some… Italian… mobster stereotype? Eddie still laughed. “Hey, you hungry? I made a reservation just in case, and I’d love to buy you dinner, but we don’t have to go anywhere if you’re not feeling up to it.”

As if on cue, Eddie’s stomach growled. He hadn’t thought about food since he’d left home; he was too focused, too disquieted to try and eat anything.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

\--

Eddie shouldn’t have been surprised by how fancy the restaurant was; Richie mentioned a reservation, and this _is_ Los Angeles—where all the beautiful, famous people live and thrive. Eddie made himself as small as possible in his intricately woven chair; he hadn’t changed clothes since the airplane, and although slacks and a sweater weren’t unduly casual, Eddie felt incredibly out of place. Richie—in whitewashed jeans and a rainbow-colored button-up—should have looked even _more_ outlandish, but he made up for it by exuding a relaxed confidence that Eddie had never seen matched. Plus… no one seemed to mind the way Eddie looked; Eddie supposed that walking in with successful prop-comedian/actor Richie Tozier implied wealth and thus, no one would have given a damn if Eddie came in wearing nothing but a smile. But anxiety works in mysterious, stupid ways, and Eddie’s worry wasn’t quelled.

“Too fancy schmancy?” Richie asked, eyeing Eddie from behind his menu.

“No, just… just fancier than I’m used to, I guess.” Eddie smiled nervously. He quickly added, “But it’s nice—really nice. Do you come here often?”

Richie huffed a laugh through his nose and went back to scanning the appetizers, trailing his middle and index finger down the list.

“Never been here before.”

“Oh.” Eddie breathed. He smoothed out the napkin on his lap, pulling on one corner so the bump in the middle disappeared. There was a stray thread there, Eddie tugged on it to see if it was still attached—it was. He looked up suddenly, an idea occurring. “You didn’t choose somewhere so fancy for _me_ did you? Rich, I can’t let you buy my dinner—I don’t mind paying for myself—I—I’m more than capable—”

“Eddie, woah, slow down there. I know how capable you are; I don’t have to pay for anything if you don’t want, it’s up to you. I just picked the place cause it’s Polish.”

“Wh—What?”

“Kaspbrak. It’s Polish, isn’t it? I remember Mrs. K used to make you pierogies all the time, when she wasn’t making lettuce sandwiches ‘because that’s what _we_ ate when _we_ were children, and _we_ turned out alright.’” Richie squawked, his voice modulating in a haughty, high-pitched register. It sounded nothing like Eddie’s mother, and a small part of Eddie was still offended on her behalf, but the facts were there. His mom would make homemade pierogies every other Friday—Frank Kaspbrak’s mother’s mother’s ecipe. Eddie looked forward to them every time because, as Richie so astutely pointed out, more often than not his Sonia Kaspbrak-approved diet consisted of lettuce sandwiches, green apples, and saltine crackers.

“It is.” Polish, he meant. “And she did.” Make perogies, he meant. She hadn’t in a while. At some point she just got too old and couldn’t make the dough quite right anymore, or so she said. She’d never tell Eddie the recipe and let him try to make them, either; it was supposed to be handed down to a woman—to Eddie’s wife. It was safe to say that that recipe would never be handed down, in that case.

“We can go Dutch if you want.” Richie shrugged, and Eddie watched in real time as the joke formulated behind Richie’s eyes. “Although, it might confuse the Polish people, ba-dum-tsh.”

“It’s not a good joke if you have to make the drum noise.” Eddie said, throwing in an eye-roll just to get his point across. He still laughed, though, because _of course he did_ ; the reproach and the performative—though constantly verging on real—annoyance were just steps in the dance they always did together. It was comfortable, Eddie could work with it; they’d only been doing it as long as they’d known each other. 

It was just that, well, Eddie didn’t travel across the country for comfortable. He came here for Richie—Richie, who after such a long time apart was just across the small table, looking handsome as ever in his confusingly-patterned shirt, the warm light of the restaurant doing wonders for his red hair. Richie, who had picked this restaurant because of _Eddie’s_ heritage. Eddie wanted him so badly and with such a fervent, deep ache that he got lost in it, only realizing that he was staring—lovestruck and too openly obvious—when Richie made eye contact.

“You’ll figure out what you want a lot quicker if you look at the menu, Eds.” Richie winked. If he knew what exactly he was doing to Eddie, he didn’t show it. He just cocked a diminutive smile—so small that there was no mistaking: it was meant for Eddie alone—and went back to scanning the wine list. Eddie gave a nervous cough. If the laminated menu actually did hold the secrets to Eddie’s desires, if it could actually tell him what to do and how to go about this fool’s errand, then he’d be paying it a lot more attention.

Richie was frowning down at the folded paper. Not in an upset way, just in the subconscious, pensive way that Eddie noticed back when he saw him again in Derry. Richie didn’t have jowls; he was too scrawny and young to have jowls for chrissake, but there were certainly pronounced lines there—from laughing of frowning, or both—that were exaggerated at the ends of his mustache, and.

Damn, Eddie was staring again.

The waitress came by soon after that, and Eddie was thankful for the distraction. He hadn’t spent any time looking at the menu, so when Richie ordered a starter of pierogis and the Hunter Stew, and Eddie could practically feel his stomach rumble in interest, he ordered the same. He ignored Richie’s all-too-knowing look and rolled his eyes in that overly fond way he always managed to do when Richie was involved. 

Richie finished up by ordering a bottle of wine for the table, the waitress scribbled their orders down and left, and it was just the two of them again. Without the two menus between them, suddenly Eddie felt naked, bared to the world, but more importantly, to Richie; the table seemed too small all of a sudden, Eddie could feel Richie’s breath as he released it in one big exhale.

“Call me crazy, but it seems like you’ve got something on your mind.” Richie said, crossing his arms and resting them on the edge of the table. He fixed Eddie with a kind but scrutinizing look. “What’s going on in that noodle of yours, Spaghetti Man?”

Eddie’s breath hitched; he was caught. He came to LA without a solid plan, true, but at the very least, he knew he wanted to spend a couple of days with Richie before talking about _feelings_. Because if Richie reacted badly and Eddie ruined their friendship forever, then at least they would have had those good days. So much for that.

“I suppose,” Eddie started, unsure of where to go. “I suppose I’m just—well I haven’t seen you since Derry.” Richie’s searching, pinched face smoothed out as some kind of understanding took hold. His gaze fell from Eddie, landing somewhere between their place settings instead. Eddie couldn’t tell if that was a good reaction or a bad one, but he continued: “Don’t you think, maybe, we should talk about it?”

Richie kept his eyes downcast, even as Eddie stared pleadingly, mentally begging him to understand, to forgive his lapse in bravery, to rewind it all to that moment outside the sewers, when they knew they were safe and free for the first time in their lives. When Richie kissed him, and Eddie’s burning want was finally placated with a tangible taste. If Richie would just look at him now, then he could start explaining, instead of just watching as Richie’s face got darker and more haunted by the second. 

“Of course.” Richie said, startling Eddie out of his head. “We _should_ talk about it—that would be the healthy thing to do.”

“Are—are you sure? If you’re not ready—”

“Oh, come on, Spaghetti, we’re adults, we can talk like adults do.” Richie grinned, _finally_ lifting his gaze. The only natural response Eddie could give was to smile back.

“Have you _ever_ talked like an adult, Rich?”

“Fair enough.” Richie huffed out a laugh.

A minute of pensive quiet took over their little corner of the restaurant. Eddie had already said as much as he could without giving too much away; all he could do was wait on Richie, and after all the waiting he’d put Richie through these last few months, it only seemed fair.

“I’ll be honest, I don’t like talking about it.”

“Oh.” Eddie said, feeling more than hearing the hollowness of his own voice. “Rich, I—”

“That’s okay, though, that’s okay.”

“But, Rich, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable—that’s the last thing I wanted. I just wanted to see you again, I—I missed you.” Eddie said, and it was his turn to avoid eye contact. He couldn’t look now, his eyes always revealed too much. He used to think that Richie was too disinterested to see the love and the fear and the hopefulness on his face, but then Richie had kissed him, leaving Eddie to wonder if maybe he’d seen it all along, but he’d been just as scared.

Now, though—now it seemed that Richie had changed his mind, and it was all Eddie’s fault.

“Whatever you like, Eds.” Richie said. Eddie feigned interest in the painted plates in front of him. “But if you change your mind, I’m here. I mean, hell, Ben and Beverly roped me into what I can only describe as an impromptu therapy session about that asshole clown, and if I can talk about It with them, then I can certainly return the favor for you, Spaghetti.”

Eddie blinked.

“Pennywise?!” Eddie said, or really, shouted. Richie’s mouth gaped and moved uselessly, and Eddie was sure that he must be confused by the outburst, but Eddie was confused too, so it was only fair.

“Your Pinot Grigio.” A stern voice cut in before either of them could say anything. Their waitress was looking between them with barely concealed disapproval as she set the wine down. They uttered quick apologies, making sure to keep them as quiet as could be. She retreated back to the kitchens, and the weighted silence was back.

“You…you thought I was talking about,” Eddie leaned in close and whispered, “ _Pennywise_?”

Richie held his hands out, palms facing up, in a gesture that was clearly intended to say, _I’m missing something, help me out here._

“I suppose I—I mean I was talking about…” Eddie trailed off. Richie was still staring at him with a dumbstruck look, and the line between his eyebrows was only getting deeper by the second. _Does he not remember,_ Eddie thought, _or is he trying desperately not to?_

“Never mind.” Eddie sighed, unable to hide his disappointment. “It’s silly.” And before Richie could press the matter, Eddie distracted him with questions about Ben and Bev, how they’d been and what they’d talked about when discussing the embodiment of their collective nightmares. Apparently they’d gone and eloped; they both couldn’t be bothered with waiting any longer to make it official. Maybe if Eddie had taken the route of writing Richie a love poem when he was knee-high to a grasshopper then this wouldn’t be so hard. As it were, with Richie’s apparently spotty, kiss-absent memory, Eddie was finding it hard to go full-tilt boogie into this. He envied his friends for that.

They took their time with the food, it was too delicious to eat without savoring, and they had too much to catch up on that filled the spaces between each bite. They polished off the wine, and before Eddie had realized, they were hours into their dinner and his belly was warm with fullness and a buzzing of alcohol. Soon after they stepped out to the valet stand and Eddie half expected the chill December air he was used to in New York; none of that was to be found in LA.

“Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” Eddie asked as they waited for Richie’s car to come around.

“Oh, dear, sweet, innocent Eddie,” Richie moved to rest his hand on Eddie’s shoulder, but missed by a couple of inches and ended up caressing his neck. Despite the climate, Eddie found himself shivering. “If I wasn’t a heavyweight, I wouldn’t have made it in this town.”

Eddie giggled, blaming how easily he was smiling on his own status as a lightweight. He was stopped a little short, though, because Richie hadn’t removed his hand; in fact if anything it had inched further up Eddie’s neck, fingers playing on the edges of his nape. Eddie looked up in time to see Richie’s stare move quickly away from his lips, landing instead on his eyes. He looked slowly back and forth, Eddie’s left eye, Eddie’s right eye, and back. Eddie didn’t understand, he didn’t know where Richie was emotionally, and he wouldn’t know unless…

“Richie—”

“Your keys, Sir.” Eddie startled as the valet stepped up to them. Richie’s arm fell, and Eddie instantly mourned the loss. He wasn’t imagining the way that Richie stared daggers at the valet as he swiped the keys out of his outstretched hand, but Eddie wasn’t going to let it go to his head. 

After that close call, Eddie couldn’t find another shred of bravery that night. He’d been officially drained of it, for the time being at least. So the ride back to Richie’s place was mostly silent and tenser than either of them seemed to want to admit. Only then, in the dark cab of the IROC-Z (which Richie had put the roof on since Derry) did Eddie realize just how late it was; it was only a little past nine, but Eddie was resolutely still operating on New York time, and this day had been…exhausting, to be perfectly frank.

Eddie fell asleep about a minute or two after his head hit his pillow, but in that small frame of time he reflected on the choices that led him here. He couldn’t deny that he’d managed to thoroughly uproot his life, nor could he deny that he was as scared as a child lost in the woods. But just before he’d withdrawn to his room, Richie had caught him by the arm, arched an eyebrow playfully, and said, “You better be on LA time come morning, cause tomorrow’s Monday, and I’m not watching Johnny Carson alone.” That didn’t make up for everything, but it certainly helped.

\--

Eddie woke up at five the next morning. He slid out of bed, feeling fully rested despite the early hour, and dug through his suitcase and found white slacks and the lightest sweater he had, a pale blue thing that was far too thin for the bleak winters of the northeast, but perfect for LA. He swallowed his pills and showered, throwing on the outfit he’d found after he’d finished up. He held no illusions that Richie would be awake that early, so he resigned himself to exploring on his own, without the pressure of Richie’s presence. 

Just outside his room, on a small table that had held framed newspaper clippings the night before, Eddie found a note and a folded article of clothing. He picked up the note first.

_Eddie Spaghetti,_

_In case you’re still on Big Apple time and you get bored, I found these for you._

_I promise they’re clean._

_-Richie_

Eddie folded the note once and tucked it in his back pocket, then, filled with curiosity, lifted the Hawaiian patterned cloth up to inspect it. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but obnoxiously, brightly colored swim trunks were not it. He allowed himself a private moment to smile, remembering how he’d told Richie he didn’t have a bathing suit of his own. It was only a little infuriating that, in his matured age, Richie had apparently become a considerate softy.

He brewed a pot of coffee and swiped a banana from the kitchen island. He stared out at the sunrise over the distant city; if he listened close enough he could swear he could almost hear the sounds of cars, people, of life. It was probably in his head, the thoroughfare was too far for any real sound to reach Richie’s home, but there was something cosmically comforting to see that life goes on around you. No matter what.

Eddie washed his mug and started his real exploration. He avoided the upper level, not wanting to wake Richie, and crept through the ground floor. Off of the kitchen was a rather large, clinical-looking dining room; the surface of the table was polished and shining, but something told Eddie that it hadn’t been used for a large gathering in some time. _I still get lonely out here in the big ol’ city of angels_ , Richie had said. Eddie ignored the commiserate shudder of emptiness and moved on. There was a siting room, a grand foyer, huge, cozy living room with comedy/tragedy masks hanging above the entertainment center, and a game room with sliding glass doors that led to the pool.

“So that’s Godzilla.” Eddie said. Stuck in a corner of the tiled pool, bobbing in the turquoise water was a five foot-something Godzilla inflatable. Eddie rolled his eyes and muttered something about what a weirdo Richie was before moseying to his room to change and grab sunscreen. He had to tie the drawstring as tight as he could, but the trunks fit, and it turned out that a mindless float in the sun-warmed chlorine was just what he needed. 

Afterwards Eddie toweled off and decided that he could use some sun—after a reapplication of sunscreen, of course—so he reclined in one of the many pool chairs with a pair of sunglasses he’d found. He must have lost track of time because the next thing he knew, there was the sound of a sliding door and Richie’s voice singing out across the water.

“I see you found the pool.”

Eddie startled upright, removing the shades from his previously contently closed eyes, and blinked into the harsh early morning sun. And there was Richie, towel swung over his shoulder, swim trunks that could rival Eddie’s in garishness, and no shirt. Richie was shirtless, and Eddie was trying really, really hard not to stare. He hadn’t seen Richie in such a state of undress since the sixties, and teenage Richie—with gangly limbs, enough freckles on his shoulders to rival a sunburn in redness, and stick-bug legs poking out of his bottoms—was nowhere near the form that stood before him now. Richie now was, well he was broad and defined. He didn’t have the muscle definition of a model, but there was obvious strength in his arms, and his chest looked strong and so different with a spattering of hair. There was the suggestion of a tummy just above the waistline of his trunks, and Eddie really had to stop himself there before his eyes ventured any further south.

“Those look good on you.” Richie said, indicating Eddie’s borrowed swimsuit.

“I—wha—” Eddie was cut short as Richie cannonballed into the deep end. Cool water droplets splashed up at Eddie, but he didn’t even flinch. Richie’s head surfaced a moment later with a canine shake, throwing more water Eddie’s way.

“You should get in.” Richie said, wiping water out of his eyes and kicking slowly closer to Eddie’s perch.

“But I’m all dry now.” Eddie grinned, and, despite his words, slid off of his chair and situated himself on the edge of the concrete, his legs dipped and swaying in the water. Richie’s face screwed up in confusion, eyes sweeping over Eddie’s torso.

“But what about all that water right there?”

“Right where?” Eddie craned his head, and Richie extended his arm up, his finger pointing at something Eddie couldn’t see.

“Riiiiiight… There!” Richie lurched forward, and before Eddie could do anything to stop it, Richie had grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him into the water. Eddie flapped his arms just a little wildly, trying to right himself, but mostly just succeeded in whapping Richie in the chest a couple of times.

“You—” Eddie sputtered. “You jerk!” He slapped at Richie’s shoulder, but purposefully this time.

“Whoa, whoa there, Eddie.” Richie giggled helplessly, and grappled at Eddie’s shoulders to hold him still and probably to end the onslaught of angry, disoriented hits.

The water cleared out of Eddie’s eyes, then, and even if Richie hadn’t been holding him steady, Eddie still would have frozen under the sight that greeted him. It was so similar, and yet strikingly different from how it was after they killed It, but there Richie was—so, so close again. Instead of sweat and dirty water, Richie’s face was speckled in clean, chlorinated droplets shone in the sun. His hair was falling limp into his face, dripping into the scant space between them. To Eddie’s horror, to his pleasure, to his _something_ , Richie was staring at him in much the same way he did back then: soft and inquisitive, cloying in a way that Eddie could barely stand. Maybe last night Eddie wasn’t willing to give credence to the moment they’d had outside the restaurant, but… two times in two days? This meant something. It had to.

Eddie swam a little closer, incrementally so. Richie’s hands loosened around him, but only enough that his fingers could wander closer to Eddie’s shoulder blades. Their legs kicked lazily through the water, stirring it beneath them and making them bob lazily, and every once in a while they’d kick into each other. Tentatively, against every synapse in his body warning him of danger and ruin, Eddie reached up and stroked a thumb down Richie’s throat. He felt the unsteady beats there, and they were beautiful—a reminder that they were alive, and this could be real if they’d just let it.

But then, almost on disappointing cue, Richie was detaching his hands and swimming back.

“Damnit, I did it again.” He said, features weighed down in defeat. Eddie all but thrashed desperately, wanting Richie back in his space, but Richie only leaned further away towards the shallows. And soon he was touching the bottom, turning away, and wading none-too-dignified till he was above-water. He stopped when he was about ankle deep, and, without turning around, said, “I’m sorry, Spaghetti Man. I get if you want to leave, but you know I’d love it if you stayed.” He started toweling off, never meeting Eddie’s eye, and it broke Eddie’s heart a little.

“Richie, of course I want to stay, I want—” _You. I want You. Damnit, just say it, Eddie._

“That’s good. I’m glad.” Richie said, clipped and terse. “Look, I’ve got some stuff to do today, but I should be back sometime in the afternoon.”

_Tell him. Stop him from walking out. Do it before it’s too late._

“I’ll see you then.”

\--

Eddie didn’t know what to do. He must have stared across the placid pool water for over an hour, sunburn be damned. Even when he finally wandered back inside, he could only wallow in how achingly empty the house was without Richie and his ridiculous energy inside of it. It was a familiar feeling; realizing what a boring world it could be without Richie, how hollow it felt. Eddie had already lost so much; he’d lost years of his life to that awful clown, years he could have spent actually being happy instead of just playing at being content. It was infuriating; Eddie didn’t think he had ever been so mad at anything as he was at that damned clown.

He stepped in the shower and tried to let the steady stream wash away the pain and anger, even though he knew it wouldn’t work. As he was drying himself off, one of the bottles surrounding his sink caught his eye. It was just a bottle of Ketorolac, but at the angle it sat, and in the hazy steam of the shower, he thought for just a second that it said Keene. And that name brought back a lot of memories, and not all of them were good (most of them weren’t), but the memory that stood out the most in that moment was good. Eddie knew that now. It was one of the few moments in Eddie’s wretched childhood where an adult actually showed him any kindness. Mr. Keene thought that that was what he deserved.

Eddie couldn’t quite understand that. He always struggled with the idea of— _deserving_ something. And maybe he’d keep struggling for the rest of his life, and that was just fine, but Eddie couldn’t let Richie feel that way. Richie wanted Eddie—as much as Eddie could hardly believe it—but he was pulling away for the same reason that Eddie pulled away from Mr. Keene. And Eddie wouldn’t let that happen, not to Richie, not to that beautiful, infuriatingly ridiculous man that Eddie had been in love with since before he knew what real love was. 

So, for the first time since he got there, Eddie developed a plan.

\--

“Eddie?” Richie’s voice rang through the house, followed by the hollow little click of the door closing behind him. Eddie’s heartbeat picked up as he hurried to assess his setup in the living room one last time. But it all looked good, everything was there. He fiddled with his collar to make sure it was straight, and made sure the cuffs were evenly visible outside of his sweater sleeves before he skidded into the hallway to greet Richie.

“Hi.” Eddie smiled.

“Hey.” Richie breathed, a string of tension seemed to ebb out of him at the sight of Eddie.

“Is everything alright?” Eddie asked, approaching him slowly. Richie’s gaze fell to the floor, seemingly embarrassed, and he scrubbed a hand through his unkempt hair. Eddie tried not to laugh at how messy Richie managed to get it in only a handful of hours. Back in school he used to come to first period with a neatly gelled side part that always managed to end up a loose quiff by lunch. Mrs. Kaspbrak would always say it was because Richie was a careless miscreant who had no respect for his appearance, but Eddie always knew that Richie’s hair was just too curly for gels, and he had a nervous habit of touching it too much.

“I uh, I wasn’t sure you’d still be here, is all…” Richie whispered, so quietly that even in the dead of the still afternoon Eddie could hardly hear him. But he did, and it tore him in two to hear Richie’s voice so low and afraid. Not even in the dark underneath the streets of Derry was Richie’s voice affected in such a way. Eddie stepped closer, wanting to touch but refraining for the moment.

“I told you I wanted to stay.” Eddie said, matter of fact, but not angrily.

“I can’t see why.” Richie huffed out, looking like a trapped animal, like he’d want to be anywhere else but here.

“I can.” Eddie said, and Richie looked up at that. With Richie’s eyes locked on his again, Eddie did finally move to touch; he brought his hands up slowly, so as not to scare Richie off, and cupped his face.

“What are you doing?” Richie stared agog and unbelieving.

Eddie thought about telling Richie that he was doing what Richie deserved, what they _both_ deserved—and it would have been the truth, too—but he decided that he should work up to that first.

“Follow me, I’ve got a surprise for you.” Eddie smiled. He removed his hands and turned to go, but decided he missed the feeling of Richie’s skin too much and turned back to grab Richie’s hand. It seized up at first, stiff and unyielding to Eddie’s grasp, but halfway to the living room Eddie felt the warmth of Richie’s fingers encircling his palm. Eddie grinned to himself and squeezed back reassuringly.

They turned into the living room and Eddie considered saying ‘ta-da,’ but decided against it. Regardless, Richie’s face shone with brilliant surprise.

“I—well, I got some things while you were out.” Eddie said, knowing that a deep blush was spreading across his cheeks. But Richie was too busy eyeing the scene: the haphazard red curtains that Eddie had constructed himself and placed to frame the entertainment center, the letter board that hung up on the far wall that read _Eddie Kaspbrak Presents: A Double Feature for Richie Tozier_ , and the coffee table littered with popcorn and candies.

“I see.” Richie said. His mouth had gone a little slack, and Eddie hid a little laugh behind his free hand.

“Do you want to sit down?” Eddie motioned towards the couch and the pile of blankets and pillows he’d found. Richie closed his mouth and moved it around a little like it had gone dry before he turned to Eddie and nodded. “Alright, good.” He pulled Richie around the couch and sat them down, making a point to leave no space between them. Richie looked flustered, but he didn’t move.

Eddie released his hand in order to grab two rented VHSs from the table.

“I got two movies; you get to pick which one we watch first.” Eddie said, holding them out for Richie to see the names on the video store’s printed stickers. “I don’t know if you remember, but this one came out the year after we first fought It.” He indicated _The Beast of Yucca Flats_ VHS he held in his left hand. “The seven of us were talking about going to see it and my mom overheard. She yelled at us and—”

“She called us degenerates.” Richie laughed. “Said we were trying to corrupt you by making you watch satanic porn or something like that.” He smoothed his thumb across the smudged ink of the rent sticker, and both of them were laughing now.

“I think she said pornography, she must have; I can’t imagine my mom ever saying the word ‘porn.’” Eddie giggled, his face screwing up in disgust at the thought. “But she kept me inside for the entire weekend. She wouldn’t risk letting me leave. You and Beverly wanted to sneak me out, but I told you guys to go without me. I thought—I thought I could finally watch it with you.”

“Oh Spaghetti, this movie is awful.” Richie grinned as he plucked the VHS from Eddie’s hands. Eddie’s face fell, and Richie panicked to say, “Awful in a good way! It’s hilariously bad, Ben nearly pissed the theater seat he was laughing so hard. I’d love to watch it with you, Eddie.”

Eddie breathed a quick sigh of relief and refocused on his plan. He held out the other VHS case, marked as _The Great Outdoors_. Richie beamed at the movie, grabbing it like it was something sacred.

“This is a modern masterpiece, Eddie. How’d you know?”

“I remember at the restaurant in Derry you talked about Saturday Night Live and Dan Akroyd a lot, so…” Eddie smiled, gazing sweetly at Richie from underneath his eyelashes. It was Richie’s turn to blush.

“Eds… this is all really wonderful, but… why?” Richie asked. If it were months ago, or hell, even if it were two days ago, Eddie would have been disheartened by the question. Now, though, Eddie knew that Richie only asked because he was scared. And Eddie needed to assuage that fear.

“I got tired of running away.” Eddie said simply. Richie looked like he needed more clarification, but instead of saying more, Eddie took the VHSs from Richie’s hands and set them down. He turned back into Richie’s space and brushed a stray hair off his forehead, then he let his hand comb further along Richie’s scalp. “Your hair is ridiculous.” Eddie smiled, letting a thumb stroke the tendon beneath Richie’s ear. When Richie let out a surprised huff of air, Eddie could feel it tickling the fine hairs on his cheek.

“You’re one to speak.” Richie whispered, tonelessly and distracted. His eyes flicked to Eddie’s lips, and Eddie felt a warm and filling excitement. It was so foreign, but at the same time it felt like coming home after a long time away. Eddie let the feeling consume him, heedless of anxieties and doubts.

Richie surprised him by moving in further, so close that their lips ghosted against each other in the most teasingly delicious way when Richie said, “We should watch _Yucca Flats_ first…” Eddie tried to respond, but whatever word he was thinking of got swallowed in a desperate press of lips.

_Oh_. Oh, Eddie forgot this. A couple of months had been far, far too long to go without this—and he hadn’t even got to enjoy it the first time. He was _certainly_ enjoying it now. Richie was a much better kisser than he was; there was experience in the way he moved his lips, how he teased his tongue across the seam of Eddie’s mouth before gliding inside. It seemed magical in the ways that it instantly quelled Eddie’s anxieties; he wasn’t worried about his own inexperience, or Richie’s past wives, or how long they’d wasted without this. It just was, and that was beautiful.

One of Richie’s hands caressed Eddie’s neck, while the other grasped at his waist—digging in so tightly. Eddie felt drunk on it, so drunk that when Richie tugged just a little more, Eddie didn’t hesitate to straddle Richie’s lap and bare down until the abrupt friction sent a jolt of pleasure through him. He was already embarrassingly hard in his slacks, but he didn’t let it deter him; he just focused on the slightly grating sensation of Richie’s mustache on his upper lip. _I kind of want to lick his mustache,_ Eddie thought, _is that bad?_

_God he was repressed._

He was about to roll his hips down and test the waters further when Richie broke the kiss. Eddie all but whined.

“Hey, hey it’s okay.” Richie laughed, giving Eddie a quick peck to satiate him. He rubbed down Eddie’s waist to his hips and back up again, teasing the curve of his ass on every other upsweep. Eddie hated him just a little bit for it… That didn’t stop him from leaning into it every time, though. “You went to all this effort, I don’t want to waste it.” He smiled wickedly.

“Forget my effort—it was nothing, really.” Eddie insisted, attacking Richie’s neck with kisses and desperate licks.

“It’s most certainly not ‘nothing.’” Richie admonished. “How long are you here? In LA, I mean.”

The change in topic was stark enough that Eddie had to struggle through the arousal-muddled fog in his head for a response. “As long as you’re willing to have me, I guess.” 

Richie pressed his forehead to Eddie’s and grinned a self-satisfied grin. “Then we have _plenty_ of time, Eddie baby.” Eddie spluttered through an aborted response before Richie kissed him slow and hard and shut him up. “Let’s watch some movies.”

Eddie was sure he could have killed him, he was so pent up, but instead he just watched as Richie slid him off of his lap and grabbed _The Beast of Yucca Flats._ Richie rewound the tape because some jerk hadn’t heeded the ‘be kind, please rewind’ idiom, making Eddie wait a whole extra minute before Richie returned to the couch. But when he did, they curled around each other instantly, unabashed now that the dam had broken. Eddie buried his head in Richie’s neck and Richie tightened his hold around Eddie’s waist. It was incredible; Eddie had never felt this before with _anyone_ , but he knew that that was okay, so long as he could experience it now with Richie.

The beginning of the film came and went, and the intro credits began to roll in big, theatrical black and white before Richie spoke up.

“I love you, by the way… In case that wasn’t clear.” He fanned his fingers out, like he was trying to touch as much of Eddie as he could. “And I don’t mean that like I mean it with Mike or Bev, or any of the others. I mean I _love_ you.”

Eddie shivered against him, smiling even though he felt like he could cry at any moment. “I love you too, Rich. I always have.” He could feel Richie smile against his hairline, so he nuzzled closer.

“Good. That’s good. I’m just sorry it took so long. I was scared of…well I was scared of a lot of things.” Eddie nodded, understanding completely. “And I’m also sorry I told you while we were watching _The Beast of Yucca Flats._ ”

Eddie lapsed into a fit of laughter, and chose a quick kiss to Richie’s neck in place of a response.

They made it through _Yucca Flats_ , but only barely. It was thoroughly boring. He hadn’t missed anything on that weekend years ago. He and Richie only managed to salvage it with a running commentary and Richie’s wacky character voices, but Eddie was still immensely glad when it was over. 

_The Great Outdoors_ was the saving grace of the evening. Richie was so enamored he hardly said a word, choosing instead to run a hand up and down Eddie’s back and to watch enraptured.

At some point they resituated so Eddie was in between Richie’s legs, his back pressed to Richie’s chest, and Richie was laid against the arm rest. Even though the hour was getting late, and Eddie swore he’d never been so comfortable and content in all his life, he couldn’t have fallen asleep if he tried; he was buzzing like a live wire, too overcome with contented giddiness. 

They barely made it to the steak eating scene when Richie’s hands started to wander. Well, wander more. Through both movies they’d been touching to their hearts’ content: locking fingers and smoothing their thumbs across knuckles and palms, hugging their bodies tightly together, kissing whatever body part got into mouth’s reach. At one particularly dull part of _Yucca Flats_ , Richie dipped down and calmly sucked a purple bruise onto Eddie’s neck, driving Eddie mad but pulling back moments later like nothing ever happened. But just as John Candy was being told that he had to finish _the whole steak_ , Richie abandoned any sense of hesitancy.

One of his hands found the bottom of Eddie’s sweater, the blunt ends of his fingers slowly dipping underneath to pull it up—just a couple of inches. He made a disgruntled noise when he saw there was another shirt tucked in beneath—another layer to move aside—Eddie giggled breathlessly. Richie laughed at his own impatience too; Eddie could feel his smile when he ducked down to kiss at the junction between Eddie’s neck and jaw. It sent a delicious shiver down Eddie’s spine, and he couldn’t hold back a moan when Richie’s fingers got his shirt untucked.

“Didn’t _someone_ say we had time?” Eddie whimpered defiantly. Richie’s hand traveled up, taking Eddie’s shirt with it, till he reached his sternum. He left it there, unmoving, teasing.

“Yeah. What a jackass.” Richie licked at his pulse point and sealed it off with a kiss.

Eddie was hungry. Hungry for everything that Richie was. He wanted everything that Richie could give him, and yet, at the same time, just this right now, just watching movies and idly touching was somehow enough too. Eddie had struggled his whole life to understand exactly what he wanted; his desires had always been tamped down by lies and worries and fear above all other things, but now, he could finally say for certain that he wanted Richie—in whatever capacity he could have him. And he had him completely. For sure, without any more doubt, he had him.

“Richie.” Eddie whimpered, pushing back into Richie.

“I know, spaghetti. I know.” Richie whispered sweetly. He took pity on Eddie and used his other hand to skirt the waistband of his slacks, back and forth. His hands were warm and gentle, and Eddie writhed under them. He was sure he was losing his mind, to be so undone by the simplicity of a careful touch, to be craving more and more without an end to his desire in sight.

“Can we—can we go further?” Eddie whispered.

“If that’s what you want.” Richie said. But when he didn’t continue immediately, Eddie knew it was because he was waiting for an answer.

“Rich, I want it. I need you so much, please.” Eddie begged. And Richie, blessedly, was already setting Eddie up and pulling his shirts up and off; the button-up got stuck for a second and Eddie thought Richie was going to burst a blood vessel with all the frustrated cursing he did. But it had Eddie laughing; he was always laughing with Richie—it’s one of many ways he knew he loved him.

Once he was done, Richie laid Eddie back into the cradle of his hips. Richie was hard against Eddie's lower back, and Eddie was completely lost to the desire to press into him. It was tempting, but. Eddie spared a moment to wonder if he should be more… hesitant. More shy. Eddie wasn’t under the pretense that being a virgin meant he was pure and breakable and needed to be handled with care. He would _like_ to be handled with care, especially by Richie, but it wasn’t a condition he required because of his sexual status. Eddie had to accept at some point—preferably as soon as possible, seeing as Richie’s length was still pressing insistent and rough into his back—that he wanted what he wanted, and despite being a virgin, he was free to be insistent. And brave.

“Touch me, Richie. I want you to touch me.” Eddie’s voice came out small, quitter than he’d like, but steady.

“Fuck, Eddie.” Richie groaned, digging his fingers into the hollows of Eddie’s waist. Eddie felt the unconscious roll of Richie’s hips, and he knew that Richie was as lost as he was.

“Please,” Eddie begged, “please, Rich. I’ve waited so long.”

Richie’s legs squeezed around Eddie, and his hands drug across pale skin till they were settled above Eddie’s fly, undoing it with practiced ease. Eddie lifted his hips and let Richie push his clothes down and around his thighs, exposing him to the balmy California night. 

Eddie was red and leaking: so much so that as soon as Richie pulled him free, a pale string of liquid dripped onto his stomach, sticking to the brown, downy hair there. He felt Richie take in a breath behind him, letting the display render him still for only a second before he let his hands continue moving. His fingertips ghosted up the underside of Eddie’s cock, base to tip. Eddie tried to hold back from jutting into the touch, but it was a useless effort, and Richie didn’t seem to mind all that much. He just played with the crown of him, spreading the wetness out with his thumb and forefinger. 

“How does it feel?” Richie asked. Eddie laughed breathlessly and rolled his eyes, even though Richie couldn’t see it. “That good, huh? Maybe I need to step up my game.”

“Hush.” Eddie huffed, all the heat gone out of him.

“Just checking.” Richie said, taking a firm hold of him. His strokes were light and long, only switching to stronger strokes underneath the head. It drove Eddie crazy with every upsweep. There wasn’t quite enough precum to supply a messy, squelching noise, but in the dead silence of Richie’s living room, the tight little slide of moisture along his cock sounded deafening. Eddie was hopelessly close already; his brain was telling him to let it happen, he wanted Richie to make him come. But. He also wanted Richie to take him—he wanted Richie inside him like he’d never wanted physical sensation before.

“Wait.” Eddie said, stilling Richie’s hand with his own.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Richie asked. Eddie tried not to think too long on how that was the second pet name Richie had let slip tonight.

“I want,” Eddie forced down the timid lump in his throat. “I want _you._ I need _you_.”

“You need me to fuck you, spaghetti?” Richie rasped, circling the head of Eddie’s cock with a light finger. Eddie didn’t know if he should arch into it or away.

“Why do you have to be so crude, Rich?” Eddie asked, yanking Richie’s hand away, and, in a split-second decision, pulled it up to his mouth to suck off his own taste. It was bitter and strange, different from anything Eddie had ever tasted before, but Richie moaned at the sight of it, so Eddie sucked harder.

“I could ask the same of you.” Richie said, dazedly, pumping his fingers ever so slightly.

“You should take me to bed.” Eddie said, popping Richie’s fingers out of his mouth. “I don’t want to do this on a couch.”

“And what exactly is ‘this?’”

“You want me to say it?” Eddie sighed. Richie hummed the affirmative. “I want you to—I mean, I need—” Eddie huffed dramatically, rolling his hips back as he finally said, “I want you to _fuck_ me, Richie.”

“Okay.” Richie said, leaning up with Eddie in his arms. “Even though I think you should watch the profanity.”

They struggled off of the couch, Eddie pulling his pants up just enough to move, and Richie keeping his hand as a steady pressure on the naked curve of Eddie’s back. He guided Eddie through the house, up the stairs, and into the blessed, dark of Richie’s bedroom. Eddie collapsed onto the bed, slipping his pants down with shaky hands as he settled into the thin pillows at the headboard. Richie observed him as he loosened his tie; his eyes swept along Eddie’s body, every inch of pale, exposed skin. Eddie fidgeted, not accustomed to the scrutiny, or to the way that Richie drank him in like a man dying of thirst.

“You sure about this?” Richie asked, tugging his shirt down his shoulders.

“Of course I’m sure. I love you, Richie.” Eddie said with a hint of levity. He figured Richie would appreciate that.

“Just checking—one last time.” Richie said as he stripped himself of his remaining clothes.

“Get over here.” Eddie said, beckoning Richie in with a bend of his finger. Richie fell to his will, kneeling down to cover him bodily, snugly fit between his open hips. They kissed and pulled till they were wrapped tightly together, unable to break apart even if it meant coming up for air. Twisted up the way they were, Richie’s cock brushed freely against his, over and over. Richie was bigger than him, each time he thrusted against Eddie, Eddie got to feel the thick expanse of his dick, the silk-smooth skin, the wet head, the trimmed thatch of hair at the base.

Richie pressed one more kiss to Eddie’s lips, and then two more quick ones on his cheek and jaw before pulling back to sort through his side table. He came back with a small bottle of lube and a strip of condoms. Eddie wanted another kiss, but instead, Richie started shimmying down his body. He stopped halfway down Eddie’s chest and raised a hand to Eddie’s lips, silently begging for entrance, which Eddie granted all-too-eagerly. He sucked Richie’s index finger, wetting it, licking the salt of Richie’s skin. Richie pulled it out when he was satisfied, bringing it to circle the pebbled skin of Eddie’s nipple with the spit-slick tip. Eddie gasped. Richie didn’t let up. He gently squeezed the nub till it was hard and over-sensitive, then he took Eddie’s other nipple in his mouth. When he bit down, Eddie wanted to scream, but a sudden burst of laughter escaped instead.

“Well, that’s not exactly the response I was hoping for.” Richie said, the words mumbled against Eddie’s skin.

“Your mustache tickles.” Eddie giggled harder, massaging his hands across Richie’s shoulders as a way of apologizing. A beautiful smile crinkled Richie’s crow’s feet, and he shook his head fondly.

“I hate to tell you, pally, but I’m not getting rid of it.” Richie simpered. He bent down to rub his whiskers over both of Eddie’s nipples, and Eddie thought he would bust a gut if he didn’t manage to push him off.

“I don’t want you to get rid of it,” Eddie smiled, catching his breath. “I think it makes you look distinguished.”

“Distinguished? Me?” He kissed at Eddie’s chest once more, smiling when Eddie flinched. “Perish the thought.” 

He continued down, taking pauses to nip at Eddie’s hipbones and dip his tongue into his bellybutton; he laved at Eddie’s skin with a fervor that had Eddie shaking. He could only watch in moonstruck awe as the man he’d loved his whole life reached for the small bottle, poured it out across his fingers, then glanced up, a soft look of trepidation playing on his features.

“You ever… had this done to you before?” Richie indicated his hand. Eddie watched an excess of clear liquid drip down Richie’s middle finger. “I know that back in Derry you said—”

“That I’m a virgin. Yeah.” Eddie looked away. He felt Richie’s clean hand come down on his hip as a comforting pressure. “No one’s ever… and I tried it myself once but. Carpal tunnel.” He laughed humorlessly and bit his lip. He knew he was pathetic, but it hurt more to say these things out loud. It hurt to say them to Richie most of all.

“Well, hey, spaghetti-man, that’s just fine.” Richie squeezed Eddie’s hip—just a light little thing, but it grounded Eddie all the same. He moved his hand then, splaying his long fingers out across Eddie’s inner thigh; he was so close to Eddie’s straining member, but he stayed away, leaving feather-light trails down Eddie’s leg instead.

“It’s fine?” Eddie asked.

“Of course.” Richie answered. “Just means I’ll have to work extra hard to make your first time a good one.” He winked. 

Eddie couldn’t help but tense when he first felt Richie’s finger, covered in cool slick, tease at his entrance. Richie’s left hand never stopped petting at Eddie’s thigh, wordlessly urging him to relax. When that didn’t quite work, he leaned over him, mouthing across Eddie’s stomach; he licked down his happy trail, gazing up at Eddie from under his ginger lashes. Eddie watched rapt as Richie dipped further down, his tongue lapping at the glistening come gathering on his head. 

Without any more preamble, and while Eddie was distracted getting his cock swallowed whole, Richie pushed a finger in.

Eddie whimpered. The dual sensation was too much, so much more, so much better than he’d ever imagined. When Richie’s mouth disappeared, he just added another finger to spread the slick further, to scissor and prod and stretch. Eddie knew he was whining, and he knew his legs were spasming each time a finger even came close to that tight ball of nerves inside him, but he couldn’t help it. It didn’t help that every time he cried out or threw his head back in ecstasy, Richie just grinned up at him like he was perfect for doing so.

Three or four fingers in—Eddie lost count, to be honest—Richie pulled out, leaving a searing kiss on the divot of Eddie’s hip. He retrieved the strip of condoms, tore into one and rolled it on. It shouldn’t have been so alluring, it should have been purely clinical—hell, Eddie was even calmed by the clinical, precautionary nature of it—but watching the latex struggle to roll down the thick width of him, every tug down denied just a little when the rubber rolled back up, it was… mouthwatering.

“How do you want to do this?” Richie asked, drawing Eddie from his thoughts. “It’s easier if you’re on your knees, or your side, but I also wouldn’t mind getting to watch you like this.”

Eddie curled up on his side, smiling shyly up at Richie; he reached out, cupping Richie’s jaw—it was just beginning to get stubbly. He hadn’t opened his mouth to answer, but he didn’t need to; Richie lay behind him, curling up till they were flush, exchanging warmth. He felt Richie’s hand come around him, spreading out and petting at the flat of his belly. He buried his nose in the sweaty hair behind Eddie’s ear—God, Eddie hadn’t even noticed how hot it’d gotten—and breathed him in.

“If it’s too much, just tell me, and I’ll stop.” Richie whispered. Eddie nodded, and Richie’s hand travelled down—ghosting over his sensitive cock, down and around his hip to hook under his leg and pull it up. “Hold this here, baby.” He said, nipping at the lobe of Eddie’s ear.

“Sure.” Eddie shivered, angling his neck awkwardly till Richie met him in a kiss. He replaced Richie’s hand with his own, and was rewarded by the feel of Richie’s cock nestling between his cheeks, pressing lightly at his entrance. Eddie pulled away from the kiss, just enough that he could look in Richie’s eyes… and there was that wonderful man he adored. He smiled up at him, full of love and a little scared, but happy. So happy. Richie pressed their foreheads together, took a deep breath, and started pushing in.

It was strange. The stretch was intense, and Eddie could feel the burn spread down his legs and up his spine. He gasped, he couldn’t help it, and Richie stilled against him.

“You okay? We can stop—”

“No. No, I’m alright—please don’t stop.” Eddie babbled. Richie didn’t seem convinced, if the tension in him was anything to go by, but he didn’t pull out; instead, he licked at the sweat on Eddie’s neck and sucked on the curve of his shoulder. Eddie inhaled deep, finding that it wasn’t easy to do, but he willed his lungs to expand and contract. The pain began subsiding slowly. Eddie licked his lip and steeled himself; he rocked back onto Richie, sliding another inch in. Richie’s hand flew to his waist.

“Take it slow, Eddie baby. This ain’t a race.” His thumb massaged the burning muscles of Eddie’s lower back.

“It’s alright. Feels good.” Eddie rasped, wiggling his hips back as if to prove his point. He was almost surprised to find that it _really had_ started feeling good; the pain had abated into a dull hum of warmth, and his cock had filled back out in interest. “Keep going.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re insatiably cute?” Richie huffed out a laugh, but he pushed his hips forward, effectively silencing any response Eddie could have bitten back. 

When he bottomed out, Eddie moaned obscenely, loudly. Richie wrapped his arms desperately tight around his chest, burying his face in Eddie’s neck. Eddie arched back into him, hoping romantically that maybe he could get just a little more of Richie inside him.

It felt like being whole. Like Eddie had lived his whole life incomplete, forever waiting for that _one thing_ that would change things for him, make everything better, make him feel right. It wasn’t just because of what Pennywise did to him, even if there was no cosmic monster that made him forget the best thing in his life, he would have longed for this undiscovered feeling forever. 

Every helpless roll of hips was an explanation for all the times that Eddie was unsure, an apology for all the things that hurt him along the way, a love letter signed _Richie Tozier._

Richie kept pushing in and out of him in quick, slick movements, pounding into his prostate, sending shock waves of ecstasy through his body. Eddie was sure his limbs were turning into jelly; he could barely keep a hold on his leg, he was so overcome with deep, resounding pleasure. Richie’s hand caught Eddie’s hip and pulled him back onto his cock; Eddie appreciated the manhandling, he needed the rough, reciprocal crash of skin on skin.

Eddie was so lost to the way that Richie was moving inside him, that it took him a second to notice that Richie was talking.

“—feel just like I thought you would. You’re doing so well.” Richie groaned, burying his face back into the hollow of Eddie’s shoulder. He nuzzled so deep that Eddie almost didn’t hear him say, “I’m so glad you love me too.”

But Eddie did hear him, and before he knew it—before he could help it—he’d reached back and grasped Richie’s hip—encouraging his movements, driving him in so that he hit home every time.

“I love you so much, Richie. I’ve—” Eddie gasped as Richie pegged him straight on. “I’ve loved you for so long. I never thought… I never thought we could have this.” Eddie said, feeling the tears prick at his eyes.

“Eddie,” Richie moaned like a prayer. His hand flew to Eddie’s weeping cock, stroking him fast and hard. Eddie knew that there was no hope for lasting long, he’d been on edge since they were on the couch, but he still gave the old college try.

The old college try lasted about twenty more seconds of Richie stripping his dick and pounding him senseless. He tried to give Richie a warning, but his mouth refused to work—he wasn’t surprised about that, he was so sex-drunk that he could hardly think, let alone speak. So when he came in white stripes across Richie’s fist, it was a pleasant surprise to both of them.

“Ah—Rich. Richie, yes.” Eddie cried pitifully, ecstatically. He held Richie harder as he felt himself fluttering, constricting around Richie’s length. If he could hold onto this feeling forever, it wouldn’t be long enough—he needed Richie, he needed to share this with him always. 

“Eds?” Richie asked, imploringly. Eddie didn’t know how to answer him, the edges of his vision were still swimming with white starbursts, and his legs were shaking with aftershocks. Richie squirmed behind him like he was unsure if he should move or not.

“You didn’t finish.” Eddie slurred once the fog in his mind settled. It wasn’t a question, Eddie wasn’t so gone that he couldn’t register the rock-hard weight inside him. But Richie shook his head, nonetheless. He pulled off of Richie with a delicious, wet sound and a wince. His hole felt raw, but just knowing that it was because Richie had finally taken him—after years of wanting him to—was all the inspiration he needed to roll over and face Richie. 

He looked worn out and wild. His hair had become even more ridiculous from their bedroom activities, flattened down and sweaty on the side that was pressed to the pillow, and sticking out here and there on the other. His brow was damp and creased, so Eddie stretched up and kissed it to smooth out the lines there. When they locked eyes, Eddie took in the look on Richie’s face and knew instantly that he looked the same, because Richie was awed, incandescent, love-struck…he was—Eddie looked down—achingly hard. “Here, let me.”

“You don’t have to.” Richie said halfheartedly, making a grab for Eddie’s approaching wrist. Eddie shut him up with a kiss.

“I want to.” Another kiss. “I love you.” A longer kiss, and Eddie laid his hand on Richie’s chest, drawing his fingers through the damp hair. When he was satisfied that Richie didn’t have anything else to say, he climbed down the bed and straddled his legs. He thought for a moment about what to do. He knew he wanted the condom off, so, with timid fingers, he reached forward and touched Richie’s cock for the first time. It twitched in interest, and even through the hazy white color of the condom, Eddie could see how ruddy and dark it was. He’d never dealt with condoms before—never had the occasion—so when he reached the rolled-down rim of it, he paused.

“Gently roll it up from the bottom.” Richie said. Eddie searched his face for a hint of judgment, or disapproval, but unsurprisingly, there wasn’t any. “If it gives you too much trouble, you can pull at the tip while you’re doing it—that’ll help.”

“Thanks.” Eddie smiled, brightly and full of sheer love. He did as Richie said, being careful with the rubber till it was up and off. He couldn’t tell you where he threw it, but it was gone, and his hands were on the velvety skin of Richie’s length; there was residual lubricant that aided his movements as he gave a timorous stroke—base to tip. Richie shuddered, his eyes closed tight in bliss. Eddie wanted to give Richie more of that—let him keep chasing that bliss. So, on a whim, he shimmied even further back, knelt down, and took Richie’s cock into his mouth.

The noise Richie made was almost inhuman; something between a whine and a startled gasp. It tasted like latex and chemicals, and Eddie almost gagged on it, but under that was the musky, salty taste of _Richie_ —so Eddie kept sucking. He swallowed him down, focusing as much as he could on the font of precum that leaked steadily out of him. It tasted better than the synthetic flavor of the condom, and it let Eddie know he was doing something right.

“Jesus, Eddie.” Richie moaned, curling his fingers through Eddie’s bleached locks. Maybe in the morning Eddie would own up to the fact that he wasn’t a natural blonde, maybe he’d come clean about it because he trusted Richie that much. But maybe not. Eddie liked to have his edge over Richie, no matter how much he loved him—that was just their dynamic.

“Tell me what you want.” Eddie sighed, pulling off of his dick. “Tell me what’ll help you finish.”

Richie’s hand moved down from his hair and onto his cheek, caressing it. “Just—just keep doing what you’re doing. It’s perfect. You’re perfect, Eddie.”

“Oh.” Eddie blushed. He tongued at the slit of Richie cock. “Good.” He swallowed him down again.

It took a couple of minutes of bobbing and sucking, lapping at his balls and head, of taking Richie in as far as he could go before Richie was coming down his throat. He had warned Eddie, had gripped his scalp, and mumbled, ‘I’m—I’m coming.’ before he was spilling, overflowing into Eddie’s mouth.

Eddie would have expected it to be too much—something gross and overwhelming—but it was mild as it pulsed and covered his tongue, and Eddie found himself swallowing eagerly, happily. He pulled off, replacing his mouth with his hand, and pumped the softening length thoughtlessly, even as Richie writhed with oversensitivity.

“Come here.” Richie whispered, lazily knocking Eddie’s hand away so he could grab it and pull Eddie up to him. Eddie snuggled into his side and inhaled hard, smelling the Drakkar Noir and salty sweat on Richie’s neck. They should clean up—there was spit and come and sweat all over their bodies that had their skin sticking together; not to mention all the clothes and the rogue condom that littered the floor. But Richie was limp in his arms, and when Eddie glanced up, he found his eyes closed and a quiet snore vibrating his chest. He was so peaceful looking that Eddie wouldn’t want to wake him for all the money in the world—so cleaning up could wait.

“Goodnight, Richie.” Eddie smiled and kissed the corner of Richie’s mouth. “I love you.”

\--

The next day, Eddie woke up alone. Maybe it was the dull ache in his core, or maybe it was the overwhelming sense of bliss that was rattling around his brain, but in only a matter of seconds, he remembered what had happened the night before—Richie whispering confessions of love sweetly in his ear, his hands travelling southward, entering him like he was always meant to be there. 

Eddie shivered.

He found his glasses on the side table, his underwear on the hardwood floor alongside assorted discarded clothes; he slipped them both on. Just as the smell of bacon and something sweet hit him, the door opened; Richie came in with a plate stacked high with food, and a glass of juice.

“Oh, hey, you’re up.” Richie grinned and set the food down. 

“Morning,” Eddie said. He bent down for Richie’s discarded button up and slid it over his own shoulders, fiddling with the buttons of the sleeves. He was nervous. He’d never had to experience _the morning after_ before; Richie didn’t seem like he was acting different, or like he regretted what they’d said and done, but Eddie wasn’t calmed by it—not entirely. He’d exposed so much of who he was and how he felt last night; it was hard to reconcile that in the bright morning light.

“You okay?” Richie asked, his eyebrows drawn together. He stepped into Eddie’s space and laid his big, warm hands on Eddie’s shoulders, massaging the tense muscles.

“I’m fine. Just… just wondering what I’m supposed to do now.” Eddie looked down ashamed.

“What you’re supposed to do?” Richie asked.

“I mean.” Eddie thought for a second, wanting to make sure he said everything he wanted to say, and to be honest—because Richie deserved that. “I’m so happy. And I love you so much.” His hands came up to rest on Richie’s. He traced the length of his fingers and the knobs of his knuckles. “But I don’t really know what—Rich, I left everything behind because I wanted—I _needed_ to see you and tell you how I felt, but…”

“But what?” Richie asked, his grip tightening incrementally.

“What now? What’s next?” Eddie managed to say. Richie stared silently for a long time, his eyes flickering back and forth between Eddie’s, his lips opening and closing like he was trying to form the right words.

Finally he asked, “Did you mean what you said yesterday?” 

Eddie’s eyebrows scrunched in confusion.

“What?”

“Did you mean it when you said that you would stay here as long as I’d have you?” Richie asked, his hands travelling up till they were framing Eddie’s face.

“Of course.” Eddie said. 

“And if I wanted you here forever?” 

“Then I’d stay forever.” The words had hardly left his mouth before Richie was hauling him into his arms and kissing him. Eddie couldn’t help but smile into it, huffing out a giddy laugh against Richie’s lips. Richie grabbed Eddie’s hips and lifted him up, Eddie wrapped his legs around Richie and held on as tight as he could—because he deserved this, _they_ deserved this, and he wasn’t going to run any more. He’d found his home.

“Forever sounds good to me, Spaghetti.” Richie said, kissing him softly again.


End file.
